Lullaby
by Noelani618
Summary: Two times Bucky can't sleep because of nightmares and his best friend helps him fall asleep anyway. Extremely fluffy bromance one-shot.


**Lullaby**

**Summary:** Extremely Fluffy one-shot. Two times Bucky can't sleep because of nightmares and his best friend helps him fall asleep anyway.

**A/N:** So this story has been buzzing around in my head for over a month and I finally finished it. Yay! The title is extremely cheesy I know, but it fits so I decided to stick with it. I just really had to write something cute and fluffy with a dose of angst because _Captain America 2: The Winter Soldier_ was an awesome movie and I wanted to explore Steve and Bucky's friendship. This was the result. Also, this is my first time writing in this fandom, so I admit to being extremely nervous posting this. So please, let me know what ya'll think. :)

Special thanks to Ani-maniac for reading the earlier, uncompleted version and providing feedback and suggestions. You're the best!

Finally, I'd like to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ for his over abounding mercy and grace, and numerous blessings.

**Warnings:** mentions of past torture and the liberal use of a Christian hymn.

* * *

_Northern Italy, behind enemy lines - 1942_

Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes was miserable. He was cold, wet, and every bone, sinew, and patch of skin hurt as if his entire body was a giant rug burn. Gingerly, he curled up into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible. Maybe then he could fall asleep.

Around him, the rest to of the soldiers were in various states of rest and watchfulness. They were behind enemy lines still and needed to be on guard.

He was pretty sure Steve was talking with Dugan and Falsworth about the night watch and plans to move out. He should have been with them since technically he and Falsworth were the ones higher in the chain of command. Quite simply, he didn't have the energy. He'd sat down when Steve had finally called a halt to their march and didn't want to move. The torture and experimentation at the Hydra lab weighed heavily on him, as big as the Alps themselves. Combined with little food, water, and the close escape from the exploding building, he could barely stand, let alone think strategy.

Bucky shuddered. The flames licked and crackled in his mind, a hellish reminder of where he had been and what had almost consumed him if not for Steve.

Steve, the stupid punk! He wasn't…Steve. Well he was, but he wasn't. The Steve that Bucky left behind had been scrawny and sick. He had been rejected from the army. He'd been left behind, safe from the war. Only, he wasn't. No, the idiot volunteered to be a scientist's guinea pig and his body had been transformed into the tall, muscular man that had pulled Bucky off that table. Not to say Bucky wasn't grateful his best friend came for him. He didn't want to imagine another minute in Hydra's clutches. But Steve was supposed to be safe back home, not here. He was never supposed to be _here_.

Steve had nearly died because he'd come charging after him. The shivers grew more pronounced, his teeth grinding. Stupid, reckless, moron didn't have a bone of self-preservation in his body! What had he been thinking charging behind enemy lines alone?

What if he'd been shot and killed? What if he hadn't made that jump?

Bucky shut his eyes, trying to breathe.

"Hey Buck." A warm, solid, and large presence sat beside him, a jacket being wrapped around his shoulders. Bucky leaned in, the memories still dancing before his eyes, and tried to focus on the present.

"Steve?"

"I'm here," was the murmured response. "It's okay, buddy. You're safe."

Notwithstanding fifteen miles or more behind enemy lines and Bucky still needed to yell at Steve for being such an idiot. Safe was relative really. But his voice wouldn't work. He settled for grunting and glaring at the forest. It was easier than looking at Steve and seeing the person who was and wasn't his best friend.

"You should get some sleep."

"Don't need to," Bucky said sullenly.

"You should try anyway. We've got at least twenty miles to cover tomorrow through Hydra and Nazi fortifications to get to the Allies."

It wasn't going to be pretty. Sure, they had the stolen tanks and guns, but food and medical supplies were practically non-existent. They'd managed to scavenge enough from some destroyed towns on their march, but it was not nearly enough for four hundred injured, exhausted, and near starving escapees. If they ran into a large enough battalion, the escaped prisoners would be in a world of trouble. That was why Steve had insisted they stop here in the mountains for a brief rest. Lookouts were stationed all around to watch for the enemy and to give everyone a chance to catch their breath before the sprint to safety.

"I know, Steve," Bucky growled. "I'm fine."

Steve didn't answer right away. Bucky could hope that maybe, just this once, Steve would leave it alone. He wasn't surprised when the blonde man didn't.

"No, you're not," Steve said softly. Blue eyes pierced him, seeing too much like always.

"So what?" Bucky snapped. "Neither is anyone else!"

"And they're resting," Steve countered sharply. He waved his hand. "Look. One sleeps and the other stands watch."

Steve was right. All round him, the soldiers were clumped together, in twos or threes, with one alert, gun in hand, while the other one or two stretched out and had closed their eyes. Bucky's stomach twisted and the water he drank earlier soured. Rest was important. It could mean the difference between reacting fast enough and moving too slow to save a comrade or yourself. Despite this, Bucky couldn't do it.

"I'm fine, Steve. I don't need to sleep. Leave off."

"Come on, Buck. You're exhausted. Get some sleep."

"Don't want to."

"Bucky—"

"No!" Bucky snapped, pulling away and struggled to his feet. The last thing he needed was Steve—dramatic, anxious, and stupidly brave Steve trying to make him sleep. Bucky didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to see that room again in his dreams or see that little man with glasses, Dr. Zola, standing over him. He would be fine without sleep. He could do it.

"James Buchanan, sit down."

He froze at the stern tone. The last time he'd heard that tone it had been from his mother. That tone brooked no disobedience and a young Bucky Barnes learned that the hard way. But hearing it from his best friend was something new and decidedly unwelcome. He sat, back stiff, keeping a good distance between him and Steve.

There was a heavy sigh then a hand settled on his shoulder. Bucky tried to shrug it off, the touch opening the hollow pit in his stomach and sting in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Bucky studied the toes of his boots, ignoring Steve. They were caked in mud and practically molded to his feet. They were going to be a pain to get off.

"Come on, pal. Lay down." Steve cajoled quietly. "Please Bucky."

Bucky wanted to refuse, but he'd never been able to deny Steve when he asked something in that quiet, pleading, concerned voice. Grumbling, he allowed himself to be pulled onto his side.

Steve ignored his complaint, tugging Bucky down until he was lying down on his side, head in Steve's lap. Bucky laid still, his jaw clenched and shoulders rigid. He wanted to scream; to shout; to punch; to kill. He wasn't going to lie here, exposed and raw for everyone to see. But he couldn't move. Getting up would take more strength than he had left.

"_Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side. Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain. Leave to thy God to order and provide; in every change, He faithful will remain_."

The softly sung words pierced through the haze of anger and pain like a bullet. Who was…Steve?

It was Steve and he kept singing, voice pitched low so only Bucky could hear him. "_Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend through thorny ways leads to a joyful end_."

Why didn't he sing _Minnie the Moocher_ or _Darn that Dream_? Why that old hymn? God certainly wasn't here in this forsaken place; he wasn't there when Bucky had been hurt by that madman. He cringed, pushing the memories back into a little box where he locked all the ugly things he'd experienced. He couldn't think about it. He wouldn't.

"_Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake to guide the future, as He has the past. Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake; all now mysterious shall be bright at last_."

As stupid as Steve's song was, he forced himself to focus on the words and Steve's soothing tenor. That hadn't changed at least. Even before the serum, Steve had a swell singing voice. His asthma made it so he couldn't sing for long or loud, but Bucky had always enjoyed it even if Steve usually sang those dumb hymns. There was something…calming about the tune, the familiar words he had not heard in years. Years. It really had been years, Bucky realized. Steve had stopped singing hymns after his mother died when they were eighteen.

Steve was stroking Bucky's head where it was pillowed on his thigh as he sang. The combination doused his anger and buried his fear. His limbs loosened; the muscles relaxing as the sense of home and safety washed over him.

"_Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below_."

He remembered this. Steve used to do this whenever Bucky had gotten sick, rare as it was. Whenever he did get sick, however, it always kicked his butt. Of course within a day or two, Steve would be sicker than a dog leaving Bucky drowning in guilt and unable to visit his friend until he was better. Steve never failed to smile when they finally did see each other, no blame or anger to be found, just a quirk of the lips and a sincere inquiry about how Bucky was doing.

The fire loomed, threatening to consume him once more. A whimper slipped out against his will. Nonononono…..

"Sleep." Fingers brushed his brow, banishing the fire and the pain. "You're safe, little one."

The words rang bittersweet in his ears. An old promise from a woman years gone as she sang two young boys to sleep now echoed by her son. "Not a child," Bucky grumbled his old token response. Steve would pay for that later. He was too comfortable to bother at the moment.

"No, you're my pain-in the-butt brother. Now, go to sleep, jerk."

"Punk," he said, mouth quirking in a smile. It faded, guilt rising in its place. "Steve…"

"I know, Buck. It's okay. Me too. Sleep."

Bucky slept until Steve woke him an hour before dawn, telling him it was time to move out.

* * *

_Stark Tower, New York – 2014_

Bucky, the former Winter Soldier had not slept in days, maybe weeks even. Truthfully, he didn't know how long, only that it had been a long time; since the helicarriers and Steve and "til the end of the line". His eyes were scratchy and heavy. More than once he thought about gouging them out, but it was only a passing thought. He was an assassin, a soldier, a sniper—he needed his eyes even though they were malfunctioning.

Maybe food would help. It helped the rest of his body run better, why not his eyes?

The kitchen in Stark Tower was huge and far too opening for Bucky's taste. He preferred the smaller kitchen closer to Steve's room. The super-soldier often cooked and had better food than the big, white kitchen did. Not that he was allowed near Steve that much since he was brought to the building. Steve brought back memories, made his head hurt like a bullet had gone through and was trying to break him open. Stark—not Howard, but his son, Tony—and the man with the metal wings, Wilson, had ordered Captain Rogers to keep his distance. While it helped, there was a strange pain in his chest at the distance.

Steve gave him a name; was the first to treat him like something other than a weapon or dangerous. Steve wasn't afraid of him. The others were. He wanted to be with Steve.

Once Bucky had tried seeking Steve out and had been slammed with a migraine when flashbacks struck. After that, he was ordered to stay away from Steve. He obeyed. Stark and Wilson were his handlers. He had too. But he wished he didn't. He wanted to be near Steve, to find relief in his presence. The kitchen was the one place Steve frequented that he was allowed. Never at the same time, but he could go there.

He silently padded into the kitchen. The air was sweet with cinnamon and oats. Oatmeal. It was one of Bucky's favorite foods since coming to the Tower. Steve tended to make it frequently and always in excess. The pot was on the stove, still warm and half full. A bowl and spoon were waiting on the counter next to a large container of raisins.

Once the oatmeal was in the bowl, he picked up the raisins Then, checking that no one was watching, he stuck his hand inside drew out a large fistful, dropping them into his breakfast. Then he did it again.

Satisfied, he took his bowl to the counter and sat on one of the three barstools to eat.

He ate mechanically, not really tasting the food. It wasn't helping much. Frustrated, Bucky put the spoon down, propping his elbows on the counter so he could let his head rest in his hands. He was just so tired. Tired of not sleeping, tired of the dreams and memories haunting his every step; tired of being broken.

Bucky shut his eyes, pointedly not letting himself think about the past. Instead, he focused on all the sensations of the present. The sweet smell of the oatmeal mixed with the lemony clean smell of the kitchen. He could hear the air-conditioner, the whirring sound from the refrigerator and in the distance the horns and buzz of the city. He could feel the cold metal of his mechanical hand and the joints and plates that made it. The wooden stool beneath him was hard and strong…

It was only for a moment, but the next thing he knew he was falling. Bucky screamed. The cold and wind raced around him. Then he hit the ground with a thump and it wasn't frozen, but warm. Dazed, he blinked, looking around in alarm, his heart racing. He wasn't in the mountains or with Hydra. He was in the kitchen. On the floor. With oatmeal splattered everywhere.

He sank back on the floor, trying to calm his breathing.

Footsteps pounding alerted him to the presence of others. Bucky suppressed a groan, but made no move to sit up yet. The computer man, Jarvis, must have alerted someone about what happened. At least it hadn't tried talking to him. Howard's son was quite an inventor, but Bucky still didn't know what to think of the computer man. He was useful for getting information and knowing the whereabouts of everyone in the tower, but it bothered Bucky that he couldn't see him. Jarvis was a just a voice. Like Pierce or Zola and their commands. He heard their voices in his head even though they were dead. Subsequently, Wilson had realized the problem and spoken with Stark, who'd assured Bucky that the computer system would not speak to him unless Bucky first spoke to him or there was an emergency.

This wasn't an emergency, but that obviously didn't stop Jarvis from alerting his new handlers.

"Man, what happened? You all right?" That was Wilson.

Blearily, he looked up to find Wilson kneeling next to him. Just beyond Wilson was Steve. Bucky immediately looked away. The bowl of oatmeal was splattered on the counter and dripping down onto the floor beside him. The stool had toppled over and lay near his feet.

"I'm fine," he said, though he knew it was obvious he was anything but. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that while the captain did not approach, the twitch of his hands suggested he wanted to. Both men were dressed in clean clothes and Roger's hair was wet. They must have just gotten back from their daily run and were headed here for something to eat. He wished they'd been later.

Bucky gingerly sat up. The fall hadn't hurt that much—he'd had worse though his mind immediately shied from the thought. That was how he ended up on the floor in the first place. Still, he ached all over like he'd been run over by a truck.

"You look beat, Barnes. When was the last time you slept?" Wilson picked up the overturned bowl and stool, setting them in their proper places, studying him. The dark skinned man never touched him without his permission or came too close unless Bucky agreed. While he normally did not like people close, he found the distance now painful. Why, he didn't know. He tried to shake it off. Stupid mind and stupid body and stupid emotions. Everything was so complicated!

"Not tired," he mumbled.

Steve was frowning. "Were you up all night again?"

The ex-assassin didn't reply. He studied the puddle of oatmeal growing next to him. Somehow, the mush had managed to miss him almost completely. Only a little had splattered his legs. Idly he studied the spots of pale goo. If it were red it would look like blood. So much blood…

"That's it." Startled, Bucky looked up in time to see Steve closing the distance between them in long strides. Odd, he didn't feel afraid at the sudden approach. "You're going to bed."

Bucky whined in protest. It wouldn't do any good. He'd tried, oh, how he had tried! But he just couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he was back _there_.

"Steve," Wilson started, but a quick hard look from the captain silenced him.

Clearly, the captain was taking charge. Relief pooled in Bucky's chest. Smoothly, Steve pulled him to his feet, looping arm over his shoulder so Bucky could lean against him. At first Bucky resisted, still unused to being touched in a friendly manner, but then he sagged. Steve was warm and solid and real.

"Come on, Buck," Steve said quietly.

To his surprise, the captain took him to Steve's room instead of Bucky's. He looked at Steve in askance, but the larger man said nothing until Bucky was seated on the bed. Then, the captain handed him a t-shirt and sweatpants. "Change into these and get into bed."

Bucky was happy to have an order and quickly obeyed. The clothes Steve had given him were soft, warm, and a little too big. He liked that. He sat back on the bed, folding his legs in what Wilson had called crisscross applesauce. What it had to do with applesauce he had no idea.

The captain came back in just as he settled on the bed, a glass of water in his hand.

"Here, drink this. It will help."

Warily, he accepted the glass and drank. The water was cool and fresh. He finished it in one large gulp.

Steve took the glass from him and put it aside on the nightstand.

"Ready to sleep?"

"No. Don't want to," he mumbled. He cringed, expecting to be scolded or struck. He wasn't supposed to want anything. Weapons didn't have desires. But Steve had told him that he wasn't a weapon, he was a person. He was Bucky Barnes. Wilson and Stark said the same thing. But he didn't know how to be Bucky Barnes. The more he learned, however, the more he wished he could be.

A large, warm hand rested on his knee.

"I know, pal. But you need to sleep. You can't keep going like this. It's been over a week and you haven't slept more than a few hours."

Neither had Steve. Bucky had taken to prowling the halls, haunting the tower with silent steps as he tried to forget what Hydra had done to him; what he had done. Inevitably he would come across Steve somewhere. The other man always acknowledged him before returning to whatever he was doing—whether it was eating, reading, drawing, or pounding a punching bag. He never said anything and that was okay with Bucky. It was enough just knowing Steve was there. Once he found Steve, wherever he was, he could never go far. It was the only time he could be close to the captain without someone interrupting. Funny, Steve didn't seem as tired.

And he was right. Bucky was exhausted. The burning intensified in his eyes and he blinked, trying to make it go away.

Why was his face wet? He touched his fingers to the wetness on his cheeks, and then looked at Steve in confusion. What was wrong with him? Was he leaking because he wasn't sleeping?

Steve's brow was lined with concern and something that he thought might be sadness. Bucky ducked his head, his hair falling to hide his face. He hated it when Steve was sad or upset. Something inside him coiled and ached when Steve was sad. He wanted to do something to make him stop hurting, but he didn't know how. Usually, he stayed away. That wasn't possible this time.

"Bucky," a gentle, but firm hand touched his chin, making him look up. "Is it nightmares?"

A nightmare was the term used for bad dreams according to Sam Wilson. A symptom of PTSD, whatever that was. He didn't really understand and wasn't sure he wanted to. Nightmares hurt. They terrified him. He saw Pierce, his handler, now dead thanks to the red-headed woman, Romanoff. He saw a small man with round spectacles standing over him that filled him with hatred and terror though he had no idea who it was. He didn't want to see them anymore and that meant not sleeping.

He nodded, unwilling to speak, biting the inside of his lip. Maybe he should tell Steve. If anyone could understand and know what to do, it was Steve.

"It's too…open. Not…not…" he struggled to find the words.

"You feel exposed?"

Bucky considered. Exposed meant vulnerable. Being exposed was bad because it meant he could be targeted. "Yes."

The leaking was slowing down. He scrubbed the water away with the back of his hand.

"All right. Wait here."

Bucky sat, watching curiously as Steve walked out of the bedroom. He could hear the blonde man rummaging in a cupboard in the hallway. A moment later, Steve returned carrying a large navy blue blanket.

"Here Buck." Steve held the blanket out so he could see it. Then, very carefully, Steve wrapped the blanket around him tightly. The fabric was very soft and warm, not at all like the tank where he was frozen. But he felt secured like he had inside the tank, comfortable. He wasn't aware he was rubbing his cheek against the blanket until he heard a soft laugh from beside him. Blinking, he looked over to see Steve smiling at him warmly.

Words balanced on the tip of his tongue, but did not come. Steve shook his head, the warm smile still on his face—and boy, was it familiar and Bucky liked it, a lot—as he guided the ex-assassin into a horizontal position on the bed. It felt nice to lie down. The pillow wasn't as soft as his, but it wasn't hard either. His attention gravitated back to Steve. There was something familiar about this, something that tugged at the corner of his mind.

Steve didn't look at him, adjusting the blanket around Bucky, making sure it was secure. He then moved another pillow and put it behind Bucky's back. The sensation of something solid against his back combined with the soft blanket wrapped tight around him made Bucky feel better than he had in weeks.

A hand brushed against his forehead—light and gentle.

"Sleep well Buck."

Wait, Steve was leaving?

He growled a protest and tried to sit up. The blanket cocooning him made it difficult and what a moment before had been comforting was now distressing. He wiggled, panic building in his veins.

"Whoa! What's wrong?" A firm hand clasped his shoulder, interrupting the panic and banishing it back to the recess of his mind.

Bucky glared at Steve, mouth twisted in a scowl. "You're leaving."

Steve tilted his head, confused. "You want me to stay?"

_Yes!_ The word rang out like a bell in his head, clear and desperate. But Bucky only nodded.

"Okay," Steve agreed, and he sat down at the top of the bed, back against the wall. His leg acted as a barrier on Bucky's right. With the pillow on the other and the blanket wrapped tight around him, Bucky felt safe for the first time since he failed his mission and fled from Hydra.

Yet, he couldn't sleep. He wanted to, and nearly was asleep, but there was still something missing. He strained to remember, frantic for that missing piece and all he found was emptiness. The leaking from his eyes started again.

"Shhh," Steve murmured, rubbing his arm. "You're safe, bud. Go to sleep."

The sullen protest of, "Can't," left his mouth before Bucky knew where it came from. At any rate, it was true. He did want to sleep, he just couldn't.

Steve snorted. "Always so stubborn," he muttered, but it was said in that same warm tone with a hint of what might have been exasperation.

Before Bucky could ask what he meant, Steve began to sing. "_Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side_."

Suddenly, he could smell pine and wet earth and gunpowder and sweat. Something warm was gently stroking his head and he could hear the soft lilt of someone singing quietly. The memory was gone before he could decipher any more. The warm feeling remained as Steve in the present kept singing.

Bucky pressed his forehead against Steve's thigh. This, this was what he couldn't remember: Steve singing.

"_Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend through thorny ways leads to a joyful end_."

His chest felt lighter than it ever had. There were no words to describe the sensations racing through him. All he knew was it felt good and safe and warm.

Bucky shut his eyes and drifted off into a peaceful slumber, carried away by the gentle melody and Steve's solid presence by his side.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please review?


End file.
